


you must have wondered if I loved you back

by SmilinStar



Series: paint me a picture (of us) [2]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 10:58:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12703632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: He was never one for this particular dance. It’s a reminder of how much he hates red tape, and the hours of sitting in meetings and being away from the action just brings to the fore something he’s buried deep down and tried to ignore.And with it, the flames finally catch up.Engulf him in smoke, blocking the light out and turning everything grey, and all he can think as he chokes on the fumes is that hemisses them.





	you must have wondered if I loved you back

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Annelyse Gelman’s _The Pillowcase._

*

 

One, tantalising, brief moment.

One fleeting second where he could believe that maybe, just this once, Time was on his side.

That the one rule the Time Masters had drummed into his head as an absolute truth was in fact simply just another lie to add to their infinite list.

That maybe their little meddling to fix reality hadn’t broken time.

Except . . .

Dinosaurs.

In Los Angeles, 2017.

Rip stares out at the chaos from the relative safety of the jump ship, and sighs.

Long, and deep, and weighed by eternal suffering.

_“Bollocks.”_

*

*

*

 

He goes back in time.

Five years, he thinks with pursed lips and a nod.

_Should be enough._

Enough time to figure out a way to deal with these anachronisms, and restore some semblance of order to the chaos they’d unleashed. It’s only in the aftermath that he realises, having a governing body isn’t necessarily a bad thing. In principle the Time Masters had been a good idea – if used right, a force for good. The lack of accountability, working outside the rules of time and space and the law itself, was what had cracked the once noble foundations and allowed it to crumble down around him in a dust cloud of disrepute.

And so an idea blooms.

The Time Bureau.

Every flaw that the Time Masters had, was every concern that was raised by the UN, and he was mollified somewhat by first, their acknowledgement of the problem, and second, by them being on a similar wavelength as to what the Bureau should entail.

And so he builds it up from scratch.

Well, okay, maybe not _entirely_ from scratch.

He still has his wealth of knowledge and skills, collection of weaponry and technology, from the Time Masters’ era, and he’s not short-sighted enough to just throw it all away because of his hatred and mistrust for everything they turned out to be – however justified it is.

He starts recruiting as soon as he gets the green light; sets out a chain of command, shares the responsibility, the leadership, and tells himself over and over:

It’ll be different this time.

It’ll be better.

And perhaps more importantly;

_I’ll be better._

 

*

 

Doesn’t take long for it all to come together.

They have their rules, their oaths of responsibility. They have their own symbol and it’s one he hopes that inspires truth and order, and most importantly, the drive to do what’s right.

It follows then that their uniform should be one that represents them as such.

It’s an uninspiring choice between black and grey and he grimaces at every design they put in front of him.

Fed up, they exchange glances across the table, sighing with growing impatience and irritation, because logically his reticence makes little sense. It doesn’t really matter what colour their suits are. In the grand scheme of things, it’s the tiniest, meaningless, detail.

Except, it chases him.

A glimpse, a glimmer, a changing hue with a mercurial mood. A shade he can’t quite remember exactly. Can’t quite grasp.

“Blue,” he says finally, “they should be blue.”

They settle on a blue that’s closer to navy than what he dreams of and though he knows it’s not quite the right colour, his gut tells him it’s an impossible pursuit. And anyway, it’s better this way.

Less to remind him of things he’s left behind.

 

*

*

*

 

The months fly past.

To begin with, at least.

Enthusiasm drips from his pores, there’s an energy that burns through him, keeps his feet bouncing almost as if afraid that if he stops for just a moment, the flames will catch up to him and nip at his feet. He doesn’t see it like that, of course. No, because he’s not running. He’s building towards something. Something bigger and greater than him, anyone or anything.

That passion and certainty in his mission translates into rousing speeches, wild gesticulating arms and a wide-eyed gaze that fixes his agents in place until they’re nodding along, and Rip feels as if he has purpose once more.

He feels _great_.

Until, of course, he’s forced to breathe.

Until Congress refuse to sanction a mission, and he can’t quite understand what they’re not seeing.

Until it becomes a day in day out fight, and the energy saps out of him, and the politics start to take root and he wonders why he ever named it for all intents and purposes after a bureaucracy.

He was never one for this particular dance. It’s a reminder of how much he hates red tape, and the hours of sitting in meetings and being away from the action just brings to the fore something he’s buried deep down and tried to ignore.

And with it, the flames finally catch up.

Engulf him in smoke, blocking the light out and turning everything grey, and all he can think as he chokes on the fumes is that he _misses them._

*

 

He tries to ignore those pangs at first.

But then he starts wondering about them.

Little things act in reminder.

The whiff of cigar smoke and he’s suddenly thinking of Mr Rory. Out of prison now, and falling back into old habits with Mr Snart by his side. Leonard Snart, alive and well. And neither aware of what the future holds.

The same could be said of Jax, down and out with his injured knee, promises of a bright future blinking out of existence and yet, he has no idea. None at all. That he’ll burn the brightest of them all.

He thinks too of Dr Palmer. The last few months he has with Anna before his world will turn on its head, and set him on the course he was always destined for.

And of course, naturally, he thinks of her.

Sara Lance.

She’s the Captain of the Waverider, it only makes sense that his thoughts fall to her with regularity. His successor. The only one who could have been, really.

At least that’s what he tells himself when her face dances behind closed eyelids.

He hadn’t lied when he’d said he had nothing left to teach her.

He hadn’t lied either when he’d said she was a much better captain than he ever was.

He doesn’t admit it, but he thinks of her the most.

Though he tries his best not to.

Of all their fates, hers hurts the most.

And he refuses to think of her dying, not when nightmares of a hand squeezing around a neck and the snap of bone still haunts his sleep.

Sara Lance dying again is not something he wishes to live through.

But Time is not easy to cheat.

 

*

*

*

 

The date is marked in his diary.

A fixed point in time, that has to be lived and died through.

An unwilling, messy scribble of her name beside it.

He shuts it close, and doesn’t open it again.

 

*

*

*

 

“Mallus?”

The looks with which they gaze upon him are a combination of bewilderment, amusement and pity.

He doesn’t see fear, which is what he’s supposed to be seeing.

And he bristles with the anger.

Not being taken seriously.

Being dismissed.

It feels a lot like history repeating itself, which would be ironic for a time traveller, but he doesn’t have the patience to go through this all over again to muse on that.

And so when Director Bennett places his heavy hand on his shoulder and squeezes, says with laughter in his voice, “so what was it last night, Rip? Too many beers with the new recruits?” He says nothing. Smiles and nods in lieu of a grimace.

And the whole room knows it’s a lie.

Because, Director Hunter? Leaving his office? Venturing out with others? Most of these suits probably wonder how he’s alive at all given they’ve never actually seen him eat, let alone socialise.

He’s earned somewhat of a reputation as a lone wolf.

He works better alone.

Always has.

Except, that’s not quite right is it? Because the truth is a much uglier affair.

He can feel himself slipping, getting lost in the grey where once black and white was so clear. It harkens back to days when the only name that seared in front of his eyes was that of Vandal Savage, and the only thing that kept him moving was an insatiable thirst for vengeance. But he didn’t quench it alone, then.

No, he had them.

He had her.

But now he’s swapping one foe for another and this time he’s without his gravity and all he has is this mounting urge to prove Mallus a threat and destroy it, once and for all. And if _they_ were here, if _she_ was here, he wouldn’t be so lost; his mind would be clear, crystal clear colour, grounding him here.

But this spiralling feeling, this need, he lets it overwhelm him, day by day.

Because the only other thing he feels is a longing for home. For them. For her. And wallowing in the impossible just won’t do. Not when he has a job to do.

And so he nods at Director Bennett and makes himself a promise.

He’ll find Mallus, if it’s the last thing he does.

 

*

*

*

 

He tells himself don’t do it.

_You stupid fool, don’t do it._

And yet here he is, standing in front of a grave.

Her name etched into the stone.

And though he knows it’s not forever, at least not right now, he feels her absence keener than ever before.

He learnt a long time ago that Sara Lance’s death was not something he’d ever learn to accept. He’d rather her rage and her tears, and her hatred at his hypocrisy than save her sister and not have her here. Living. Breathing. Beside him.

But now he knows.

Knows that it may all be for naught anyway.

That a greater danger lurks and it’s gunning for them all. For humanity itself.

And so he’ll do what he has to.

Places wild flowers at her feet and walks away.

Because a world where this grave becomes a permanent monument to the woman he fell in love with despite himself, is not one in which he wishes to suffer any longer.

He’s lost enough.

And this is where he draws the line.

His team will live.

_She_ will live.

 

*

*

*

 

He doesn’t count down the days.

No, that would be rather pathetic, even for him.

And yet, somehow, he knows exactly when the day is upon them.

It’s been five years, after all.

It feels a little like it did at the start, a giddiness bubbling away at the surface, because finally it’s all coming together and he has a purpose once more.

The grey clears away and everything is saturated bright – blocks of technicolour in the middle of the busy city centre, 2017 – and he sees their bewildered faces and he can’t help himself;

“Well, you really have buggered everything up this time.”

Probably not the best opening line, but he remembers what he needs to do. What he needs _them_ to do and so he tries not to flinch at the confusion, the hurt that stares back at him, and convinces himself that it’s all for the greater good.

They’ll understand some day.

And that has to be enough.

 

*

 

_“Look, I miss the good old days too, Sara,”_ he tells her.

Though what he really means is this:

I miss _you._

But, of course, she doesn’t hear him.

He never expected she would.

 

*

 

Later, he’ll remember one thing.

Once the Waverider is safely away, Legends aboard, and he faces down the barrage of questions from the Bureau and placates them as best he can. Once they’ve dispersed, off to save Time in the efficient, clean, cold way he’d taught them, he’ll sit back in his chair, and breathe, and remember her words.

_“And you don’t think you need us anymore.”_

And how he had no answer. None that he could admit to.

But most of all, he’ll remember the look in her eyes.

The hurt glittering there amongst untold emotion, swimming in that shade of blue.

And he’ll think, _finally._

That’s the one.

 

 

**End.**

 


End file.
